


kicking up stones

by laurxnts, vannes



Series: More Landmarks, Less Landmines [2]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Growing Up, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 02:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8780080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurxnts/pseuds/laurxnts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vannes/pseuds/vannes
Summary: They meet on the ice. ((A short vignette of Laurent and Victor growing up together.))





	

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> WHO ELSE GOT FUCKED UP BY EP 10!!!!!

i.

They meet on the ice. Victor is fifteen, his hair just past his shoulderblades and long enough to be pulled back in a messy bun, the sleeves of his costume itchy with glitter, and he skates out for warm-up with a confident smile on his face. He barely makes it to the center of the rink before he turns for his first practice jump and comes face-to-face with a ghost. It takes him a moment to blink the vision out of his eyes, because of course it is not a ghost. Merely the image of one.

“ _ Quoi?” _ Asks the boy in front of him, tone clearly annoyed despite the foreign tongue. Victor glides his weight back a few feet, unable to take his eyes off of Laurent de Vere, who stands on the ice like he was born for it, like his brother before him.

_ “Прости _ ,” Victor apologizes, and watches Laurent’s brow scrunch in confusion. Yakov shouts something at him from the sidelines, probably upset that Victor isn’t using his time to warm up, but when Laurent de Vere cocks his head, eyeing Victor from head to toe, he can’t find it in himself to skate away. He tries again, in English this time. “Sorry. I am Victor.”

Laurent’s eyes flick to the side, towards the kiss and cry. Victor follows his gaze, sees the sandy-haired older man waiting in the shadows, frowning at the two of them. He meets Laurent’s gaze again and pushes himself forward a few inches with his toe pick.

“I am Laurent,” the boy in front of him says, like there’s any way Victor hadn’t known that. Laurent de Vere’s junior debut had been the most widely celebrated in recent memory, and when he’d skated out onto the ice for the first time just last year, Victor had watched breathlessly with the other competitors. Laurent hasn’t been seen in public for months, though, not until now. “Sorry, I—I must go.”

Victor almost says something else, but English escapes him, and he watches silently as Laurent brushes past him, headed confidently towards the sidelines where his coach—his uncle—is waiting for him. Victor watches for a count of three as Laurent bows his head, as his uncle places a hand on his shoulder that seems gentle compared to his harsh tone. Laurent nods, a strand of golden hair falling out of the high ponytail holding it back, and his uncle reaches out to tuck it behind his ear.

Victor turns away. He ignores Yakov shouting at him and instead tries to land his triple toe loop, practicing until he finally lands correctly and the timer for warm-up has almost run out. He sees Laurent pass him in a blur of blue jacket and blonde hair, but neither of them stop to talk. Victor is skating first, so he loiters on the ice until Laurent is the last one there, his brow still adorably furrowed as he steps off the ice and into his uncle’s embrace. Victor watches them, until they vanish into the back rooms and he’s called out for his short program.

When he reaches the middle of the rink, Victor closes his eyes and concentrates, pushing all thoughts of Laurent de Vere to the back of his mind. This is what he was born for, he reminds himself. The music starts, and Victor forgets everything except the feel of his body on the ice.

He comes in second, at the end of the tournament, but standing on the podium with Laurent de Vere at his side, Victor thinks that he can probably live with it.

* * *

 

ii.

The first time they have a real conversation is nearly two months later, at the first Junior Grand Prix tournament in Russia. Laurent and Victor are both waiting in the back room, watching the first skater as he opens with his free skate. Their coaches have left, talking in hushed tones in rapid English, leaving Victor sat next to Laurent on one of the benches. The three other skaters are scattered around the room, in various stages of stretching.

“How are you?” Victor asks, as amiably as possible. Laurent looks up from his lap and tugs out one of his earbuds, his head cocked to the side.

“ _ Quoi?” _ He asks, though this time there’s a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The skin under his eyes is bruised, like he hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep. Victor sticks his hand out with a grin, watches as Laurent’s hand flutters at his side for a moment before reaching up and returning the shake. “Good luck, Victor.”

Victor positively beams. It’s perhaps a little irrational, to be so pleased, but the small smile on Laurent’s face is the most expressive that Victor has seen him off the ice.

“Are you skating the same program?” He asks, his tongue careful around the unfamiliar English. Laurent nods, and tugs out his other earbud.

“Uncle wants me to—perfect the routine. He thinks I can win the division with it.” Laurent’s words are hesitant, and Victor is suddenly reminded that Laurent is nearly three years his junior, and must be less far along in his English lessons.

“That is wonderful,” he enthuses, and then remembers that they are supposed to be competitors. It hardly seems to matter, though, when Laurent smiles shyly up at him, long hair sweeping across his shoulders. Victor tugs at his own braid, long down his back, and basks in the pride that  _ he _ can bring a smile to Laurent’s face, after so many months of seeing him solemn in front of the cameras, asking for comments on  _ Auguste _ .

Auguste. It still sends Victor reeling, whenever he thinks about it. He’d had a poster of him hanging in his bedroom in St. Petersburg, until Papa had thrown it away. It had been just days before that terrible Grand Prix Final, where the crowds had waited for over an hour for Auguste de Vere to step out onto the ice, not knowing that he never would again. Victor shakes off the images, of blood on that Barcelona street. Laurent is here in front of him, the spitting image of his brother, and Victor focuses on that instead.

“Are you skating the next tournament?” Victor asks, even though he knows the answer. He wants to see Laurent smile again, he decides.

“No, I am—” Laurent is cut off by the return of his Uncle, with Yakov at his side. Victor scowls at Coach de Vere, until Yakov cuffs him gently upside the head. Laurent seems to have shrunk beside him, hunching into his athletic jacket as his uncle begins to jabber in rapid French. Yakov starts lecturing Victor about his upcoming free skate, something about his step sequence, but all Victor can think of is the way the excitement had gone out in Laurent’s eyes when his uncle had begun to speak to him.

Yakov leads Victor out to the rink by his shoulder, his grip parental in a way that Victor has come to associate with simply  _ Yakov _ . He sheds his jacket and hands it to Yakov as he steps onto the ice, brushing friendly shoulders with the boy stepping off. As he skates to the center, the crowd cheering as the announcer introduces him, Victor finds himself hoping that Laurent is watching on the television in the back room.

He watches Laurent’s free skate from the audience, watches as Laurent soars on the ice in ways that he’d only seen in Auguste’s performances online. They make the podium again, though this time Victor is standing in the middle, gold looped around his neck. Laurent shakes his hand again, though he seems a little put out.

“Laurent!” Coach de Vere calls from the stands, and gestures forcefully.

_ “Un moment, s'il vous plait,” _ Laurent calls back, past the crowd of photographers and reporters. His uncle scowls, but nods curtly.

“Thank you,” Laurent says to Victor earnestly, his thirteen-year-old face too somber. Victor nods, charming smile still fixed in place for the cameras. Laurent waves as he hops down, ponytail whipping his face as he pushes through the crowd. His uncle leads him away with a hand pressed to the small of his back and Victor watches him go, wonders how it must feel to have family so open with their affections.

He still calls his father after they leave the rink, and his father still doesn’t answer the phone.

* * *

 

iii.

Two years later, Laurent finds Victor in the locker room after their second competition in the senior division. They’d placed second and third, Laurent precariously placed to qualify for the finals at only fifteen years old. Yakov had been approving but hardly pleased, and Victor finds himself in the locker room, phone pressed to his ear as the line rings and rings and rings.

His father picks up on the ninth ring. For a moment, Victor holds his breath, hardly daring to believe it.

“What is it?” His father demands, and Victor feels like the breath has been punched out of his chest.

“I—hello, Papa,” he says, hesitating minutely. He knows that it is a mistake as soon as the words leave his lips, is treated to his father’s growl of annoyance, the sound crackling in his ear. He can’t stop the instinctive flinch.

“I said, what is it, Victor? I hope you aren’t calling me to waste my time with your figure skating.”

He feels the words shrivel on his tongue.

“I just wanted to tell you that—I qualified for the finals, Papa. They say that I may place.” The derisive snort hurts almost as much as the words that follow.

“Pathetic. If you don’t win, why bother skating at all? You know that’s the only reason I allow you to compete. There are better things that I could be doing with my money, Victor.”

“Yes, Papa,” he says, lead settling in his stomach. Why had he bothered? Victor has the sudden urge to fling his phone across the room, to hear it shattered against the metal lockers and cement floor. “I’m sorry, Papa.”

“Don’t let it happen again,” his father says, and ends the call.

Victor holds the phone to his ear for another few seconds, hoping that  _ maybe _ his father will call back, apologize, reassure Victor that he’ll support him no matter what. But the call never comes, and Victor slumps back against the locker behind him and drops his phone from his ear. He doesn’t even realize that he’s not alone until he hears someone shift behind him.

“Who were you talking to?” Laurent sounds detached, and exhausted. Victor whirls around, banging his elbow against the metal door of the locker, and feels momentarily grateful that the competition is already over. Laurent is standing in the doorway of the locker room, his costume and skates still on, bag slung over his shoulder. He looks concerned though, the familiar crease in his forehead present as he looks back at Victor. He’d spent the night in Victor’s hotel room last night, taking up the second half of the king suite without a second thought.

“No one,” Victor says, automatic and casual. He can feel the smile already returning to his face, can feel Laurent drawing away and curses himself for it. He owes him this much, after everything. He forces himself to close his eyes, to release the tension in his shoulders. Victor exhales, doesn’t let himself look back at Laurent when he speaks again. “My father.”

Laurent goes still, the minute movements of his body shifting into nothingness. He looks a little more like he understands now, a little more sympathetic.

“Did—” Victor starts, pauses to re-evaluate his English. “Was your father proud of your skating?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Laurent replies, tugging his bag up further onto his shoulder and glancing away. “It has been a long time since I have talked to him.”

Victor wonders how he would feel if it had been his father who had died. He thinks of Laurent, with no family left save his Uncle, who hasn’t been his coach for a year. His Uncle, whose possessive touches make too much sense now that Laurent’s hair is severed at the nape of his neck. He thinks of Yakov’s heavy hand, gentle on his shoulder.

He sits on the bench in front of him, letting his head fall into his hands, elbows balanced on his knees. He feels more than sees Laurent sit next to him, hears the soft thud of his bag hitting the floor. Laurent’s hand appears in his peripheral vision, the lace cuffs of his costume sleeve falling over his thumb.

“I’m sorry,” Laurent says, and Victor tells himself that it’s enough. He lets his fingers lace between Laurent’s, lets his body rest for the briefest of moments.

“I’ll see you at the finals,” Victor says, as if he is going to leave. Laurent nods, as if he believes it.

They don’t move until Yakov starts to yell at Victor from outside the locker room, and Victor leaves Laurent to change in the dark, with only a parting touch to his shoulder.

_ “Прощай _ ,” he says softly, dipping back into his native tongue.

“ _ Quoi _ ?” Laurent asks, just as soft. His fingers trace lightly over Victor’s own, where they rest on his shoulders. Victor smiles, and draws his hand away.

They’ll see each other in a month, Victor thinks. It will have to be enough.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any questions about anything, catch us on tumblr: [Emma](http://yuriplitsesky.tumblr.com) / [Alex](http://achillesandpatroclvs.co.vu)


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